Sebastian's Dream
by EliseHart
Summary: A dream I had being Sebastian Moran. Moriarty gives Sebastian a job, something he's been waiting for for a long time.


Johnlock/Mormor

M

1,760 words

Rating: 5 stars

Earlier that day, I found myself in a meeting with James Moriarty. It was dark with one light hanging overhead; it looked almost like an interrogation room. He stood at the opposite side, almost completely in the shadows. His familiar voice echoed off the walls, "He'll be at the abandoned warehouse just outside of London at 10 o'clock." I nodded, having received my orders, and turned to exit the room. "Oh, and Sebastian," he added.

I turned back to him, looking slightly irritated. I've been waiting for these orders for over two years; my excitement was getting the best of me. "Yes, Boss?"

As he spoke, he grinned deviously, "Make sure you have an audience."

I returned the smile, knowing exactly who he meant.

—

The next thing I knew, I was already at the warehouse; perched outside, hidden in the brush, watching my target and his ally enter the doors. The doctor was sporting one of his hideous jumpers again; I was surprised the detective hasn't burned them yet. They were whispering to each other, but loud enough that I was able to hear bits and pieces. "Moriarty…are you sure…be here…" "I was told…Moriarty…come…"

Ah, so that was it, then. Dear Jim told the old boys that he'd be at the warehouse with a gift. 'No wonder the two of them are so rushed,' I thought. They couldn't wait to get their revenge for what Jim did to the both of them. For John, stole the man he loved for three years, and for Sherlock, kept him from coming home for the same length of time. A heart-warming tragedy for most people, just building tension for me. Jim wanted John to be alive when Sherlock came back so he could have him back and then get him ripped away all over again. Only this time, permanently. It's a suitable ending, but it took too long. I wanted to make this last, for my memory's sake.

I couldn't get a good shot from outside, so I crept closer to the door. I could hear feet creaking the floorboards above my head, beckoning me to follow. And I did, trying not to be too hasty. Every step I made was silent, knowing I had to remain calm and quiet to get this job done. It was so difficult though, more difficult than I thought, just to steady my breath.

A night-vision scope was already mounted onto my rifle, so I relied on that to guide my way. Why did these morons leave all the lights off, did they really expect Jim to be waiting here in the dark? I got to the next floor, saw them walking around aimlessly in the middle of the room, and waited silently on the stairs. "What time did you say he'd be here?" I heard John say.

"Does it really matter? He'll be here when he gets here. The time was just to make sure _we'd_ be here. Honestly, John. How often do you use your brain, exactly?" The smug detective replied.

John retorted in an irritated voice, "Oh just shut up about it, for god's sakes."

Sherlock turned with a smile, and John followed after. The two men giggled together for a minute or two until they stopped for air and Sherlock breathed, "Oh God, I missed this."

John's laugh slowly quieted as he replied, "Yeah, me to-"

A shot rang out throughout the abandoned room. I couldn't help it, it was perfect timing. John felt to the floor, grasping his right leg in agony. Sherlock yelled his name and ran to him, trying to stop the bleeding in the dark. I turned on the light to help him out a little, leaving my rifle on the stairs. Sherlock looked up at me, confused, frightened, and angry. Without warning, he whipped out a handgun and shot at me. Luckily, I had guessed this was his reaction and dodged out of the way. He could be so predictable when you put him in the right situation. I knocked the gun from his hand and kicked him to the floor, grabbing the writhing doctor.

John groaned in pain as I lifted him to his feet, holding the gun to his skull. Sherlock looked up at me with a pathetic face, and then to John with a reassuring one. Love did such bizarre things to people. Unexpectedly, John mumbled, "Sherlock…go. Go home." The bravery of a soldier. I had been underestimating the doctor, completely forgetting about his Afghan past. I focused more on him instead of Sherlock, making sure he wouldn't try to slip away and kill me, which would not please Jim.

But Sherlock didn't listen, of course. Instead, he stood straight and tall and looked me in the eye, "Who are you?"

Who am I? That's a dumb question, and it'd be dumb to answer. "Why should I tell you?" I say playfully, "You'd only try to find me after I've killed your precious doctor so you could get your revenge. Nah, not my style."

"What do you want, then?" He asked, almost pleading. It was very demeaning, and I smiled.

"To kill Doctor Watson, of course. Really, Sherlock, for a genius you can be so slow to pick up the game."

At my remark, John tried to wriggle away, but his leg was weakened and it got the best of him. He gasped when he moved it the wrong way, probably causing pain to shoot up his entire leg. Right next to his kneecap, the perfect place to keep someone immobile. "No, Doctor Watson, that's not how the game works. This is." As I spoke, I held John's left arm to his side while standing on his right, put the gun in his right hand and held his finger to the trigger. I watched Sherlock's eyes widen. "Sherlock, I'm going to show you the past. John, do you remember this?" He was silent. "Come on, Doctor. You can speak. Don't make me pull the answer out of you." I put pressure to the bullet wound and he yelped.

"Yes, I remember," he gasped. I was holding the gun to his skull again. Well, holding his hand to position the gun to his skull.

"Very good, Doctor Watson." I smiled. Sherlock had a look of confusion on his face again. "Ah, you don't know, do you Sherlock Holmes. After a month of being back and he still has not told you."

John tried to wiggle away again, but I held him tightly. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out at first. I had left the master detective speechless, an accomplishment Jim would have loved. "W-what…has he not told me?"

He was speaking to me, which was a little unexpected. I thought he would ask John, but then again, John wouldn't have answered. In reply, I nodded to the gun, "How did you do it, Doctor," I asked, looking at the doctor. "Sometimes it was like this. And others, it was like this." I moved the gun under his chin, positioned upwards towards his skull. "And sometimes, it was even like this," I grinned as I moved the gun to his lips and he hesitantly let me point the gun down his throat. Sherlock took a step forward. "You take one more step and his brains will be decorating the wall faster than you can think." He stopped, and watched as I continued. "But you know what the weird thing was. Right afterwards, he would yank the gun away," I pointed the gun to the wall, "And shoot the wall." A single gunshot rang throughout the room. John's eyes were closed and he was trying to hide his face in shame.

Sherlock looked stunned. He wouldn't have believed me if it hadn't been for John's shame-filled face. It left him wondering, why hadn't John told him, instead. "John…" he said warmly, reaching out for him.

It was almost beautiful, his concern. I had the gun repositioned to John's head, ready to finish the job. "You really don't know, Sherlock. The effect your death had on Doctor Watson." His eyes never left the doctor's face. I became annoyed, but I continued, "I watched him for a little while, until Jim came back. I wanted to end his pathetic life, not out of sympathy, but anger. Anger that his effect on you caused my boredom for a year. But Jim returned, and I asked him if my orders were to kill this doctor. He said no, but I would get my chance. Two years later, here I am. Savoring the moment for when Jim finally gets his chance to burn your heart out."

Sherlock looked up at me in anger, "I'll stop you."

I laughed at this. No he wouldn't. If I didn't do it now, I'd just wait outside and snipe John on his way out. But I won't let that happen, this is far less boring. "Don't worry, I'm almost done. I just have to ask you something before I go. Why did you wait so long? Poor, John. On the brink of suicide for _three years_! I wouldn't have lasted that long, I'll tell you that much. Your doctor is a strong one, you should feel lucky to have known him for as long as you did."

He looked down at the doctor. I watched in bliss as a tear trickled down his cheek. I got him to cry. Jim would really be pleased with this. The detective replied, "I've always felt lucky."

John looked up, and then away from his friend. "Shit," was all he said.

"Is that a sympathy comment, Doctor Watson? Or do you not feel the same way." John looked back to Sherlock with a face that screamed 'why didn't you leave when I told you to?' This was too good to be true. "Ah! You do! Sherlock Holmes, you are a lucky man. The man you love loves you back. Congratulations."

One last shot echoed off the walls.


End file.
